The Plague on Baker Street
by toroj
Summary: Comedy-drama. Sherlock insists he has the Plague, and Watson has a problem. How to put up with a spoiled sick genius? Gueststarring - the Iraqi terrorist group.


Polish title: Zaraza na Baker Street

Author: Toroj

Translation: Serathe

Betareading: AnimaBaya

The Plague on Baker Street

written by Toroj (deranged)

"What happened your Hippocratic Oath, John?"

"I left it in my desk."

(from S&J dialogues)

"Today is Thursday", said John during breakfast. He hoped his tone sounded meaningful enough.

"I know it's Thursday, John. There is always a date in the headline", replied Sherlock Fucking-Consulting-Detective from behind the paper, in a tone that was cold and haughty. "Boring... boring..." He turned the page. "Boring..."

"Thursday, Sherlock! You haven't eaten since Tuesday."

"I did yesterday."

"Yesterday was Wednesday and you don't eat on Wednesdays! You have only overindulged in coffee."

Sherlock didn't deign to reply, he just poured himself some more coffee, making one of those impossible faces of his. John arrived at a conclusion that any discussion with Sherlock during one of his moods is pointless. So he just poured a generous amount of muesli with raisins and nuts into a bowl, added two spoonfuls of honey and mixed all that with a fruit yoghurt, having made sure that it's not an ongoing experiment of any kind. The yoghurt has been in the fridge since Tuesday, but it looked fine. If he could persuade Sherlock to consume the thing, it will give him enough calories to survive until Friday, and then they'll see.

"Can I move the eyes to a shelf above? I can't fit the lazagna in there."

"No", the consulting detective answered quickly, still pulling a face over the newspaper. John placed the bowl in front of him with a tap.

"Thursday, Sherlock! I really don't know why I'm mothering you. I should let you starve, at least I would finally have some peace and quiet."

Jiggling with his knee, Holmes threw the paper on the table.

"Because I'm paying half of the rent. Don't be such a drag, John." He took the bowl and tasted its contents. "This is disgustingly sweet!"

"Brain works on carbohydrates. If you want to solve criminal cases, you feed it."

"Boring..." Sherlock emptied half of the bowl with three spoonfuls, swallowing with such disgust as if he was taking a medicine. "Happy?"

"It'll do. Eat the rest later and put the dishes into the washer. I'm on duty, I'll be back around four."

A vague mumbling was the only answer John got. And then he left the flat at the mercy of his flatmate and went to work.

Sherlock has had a small trust fund, which brought in a tiny income - exactly enough to pay Mrs. Hudson half of the rent and eat every two or three days. Sometimes the "cases" also brought in some money, and when Watson started to take care of the finances, those earnings got even bigger. A military pension after three tours of Afghanistan with a bonus for being invalidated on top of it should have provided him with a modest income, but John simply felt like working and seeing people, even if they were ill, suffering from a cold and so on. As usual at the beginning of winter. (At least they were alive, which wasn't so common during trips with Sherlock). In addition, there was a raging rotavirus in London and half of the patients were complaining of stomach ache and diarrhoea. John visited the pharmacist's on his way home and bought some sulphonamides and carbo medicinalis just in case. If he hasn't yet got the virus he will certainly catch it later. Better safe than sorry.

Home greeted him with silence. Mrs. Hudson usually listened to some radio broadcasts at this time of day, but she had just left for a couple of days and the ground floor was deserted. The flat on the first floor also seemed to be empty. Of course... Empty mugs in the sink, along with some plates and a bowl of unfinished, crusted over muesli in it, with a spoon sticking from it like a cross on a grave. The kitchen table was occupied by some jumbled up and unfinished chemical experiment and between the flasks and the test tubes there were, for some reason, a few mint tea bags. Sherlock I-Am-A-Genius-And-I-Don't-Have-To-Clean-After-Myself Holmes made a mess like usual and disappeared. Surely he stumbled on another case.

John uttered a sigh and took off his jacket, then he stretched and pondered if he should first eat something or clean. He decided he deserves a sandwich. While biting into one with some cheese, he got a text.

'Come. SH'

John raised his eyebrows. A peaceful evening with a book and a cup of tea was just disappearing in a London fog. Damn it, the taxi expenses again... But Sherlock has a CASE, hasn't he?

'Where?', he texted back, finishing his sandwich.

'Bedroom', the answer came after a short while.

At first John didn't believe his own eyes, but he went through the kitchen into a small corridor and then looked inside Sherlock's bedroom. The detective was lying on the bed, still in his pyjamas and a blue dressing gown, clothes he has been wearing since morning (which wasn't in any way odd in his case). He was holding the phone in his hands, which were placed on his stomach, and he was looking pale. Actually, much more pale than usual. There was a jug with some tea on his night stand and a mug dropped on the floor, right next to a very significant orange plastic bucket, that usually resided in the broom cupboard.

"Bloody hell...", the words escaped the doctor's lips. Apparently his duty wasn't over yet. Judging from this pathetic picture, Holmes felt bad and the poor thing tried to cure himself with some mint tea. Chamomile would be a lot better, but how could that miserable chemist, an amateur criminologist, have known about it? He was able to recognize a Bohemian stationary by its texture, but it didn't occur to him that he should go to a doctor or at least tell John what's happening.

"When did the vomiting start?", John asked sternly.

"It started..." Sherlock's eyeballs made a half turn as if he was looking inside his own head. "At eight forty seven."

John left for work at eight. He just nodded with sympathy and went to the kitchen to find some pills and a glass of warm water to wash them down. It was just as well he visited the pharmacist's.

He went upstairs and took an old, damaged, metal box out of the closet. It contained a first-aid kit. Holmes must have felt really horrible, because he swallowed the pills without a word of protest.

"I was expecting it would be me who catches the flu, since I'm the one in contact with a whole bunch of sick people every other day", said John, carefully examining his stomach. The flu was the most probable, but appendicitis could give similar symptoms...

Sherlock breathed more and more heavily, swallowing tightly.

"John...", he groaned weakly.

Watson quickly helped him to get on his side and brought the bucket closer. After no more than two seconds he already had a once in the lifetime chance to watch the only one consulting detective trying to get rid of dinner from a day before yesterday and maybe even of the breakfast from four days ago. And naturally also of the pills he just swallowed. John had to hold him to prevent Sherlock from falling into the bucket head first. Finally, the exhausted, sweating detective fell back on his pillow.

"Oh my..." the doctor mumbled, peeking into the bucket. It didn't look good. Sherlock's stomach was completely empty, he started to vomit the intestinal contents, which were also not impressive and very watery. John brought a wet towel from the bathroom. He helped Holmes to refresh his mouth and carefully cleaned his face.

"I'm dying", Sherlock said in a dramatic voice. He was shivering, so John covered him with a duvet and put a blanket on top of it.

"People don't die from the stomach flu."

"I'm dying from the Plague."

"Sherlock, don't blather. You can't have the Plague."

"The symptoms fit, I've checked the internet in the morning."

"You don't have a high enough fever, you don't have..." Just in case, the doctor touched Holmes behind his ears. "...swollen lymph nodes. How the hell would you catch the Plague?"

"I've had a temperature of three hundred eleven point sixty five degrees in the morning..." mumbled Sherlock through chattering teeth.

"It's impossible, you'd be a slag by now."

"K-k-kelvin scale", Holmes stammered.

"And in Celsius?"

"I f-forgot."

John just shook his head. He forgot, Jesus, he really is sick. Somebody should take his damn temperature.

"That last case... in the docks. There are rats. And a flea bit me... Here." Holmes pointed at an inflammated speck on the side of his neck. It looked like he was bitten by a gap-toothed vampire. "I'm telling you, I've got the Plague."

"I think it's just a scratched mosquito bite", Watson stated, examining the suspicious mark.

"Or a blooming bubo. Ffff... John, think. It's the beginning of December, a mossssquito?

"I am thinking! From Greenland! A Greenland mosquito!", the doctor snapped. "You were in the docks, a mosquito got there by a ship from Greenland, it's much warmer in London, so it woke up, got out of the container and bit you!"

I think I've lost my mind.

Something like a spark of recognition flickered in Sherlock's eyes, but John immediately assumed it was a hallucination. He took out a stethoscope and listened to his friend's heart rate. Unfortunately it was beating much too fast, as if Sherlock has just finished running a marathon. John pinched the skin on the pale forearm - it wrinkled and went back to the previous state too slowly.

"Yes... Tachycardia, weak skin tension. Diarrhoea?"

Sherlock muffled affirmatively, as if with shame, curling up under the blanket.

"You're simply having a severe case of the stomach flu", John confirmed, taking out the thermometer and pushing it under Sherlock's nose. "Open your mouth. Very well. Good boy."

The "boy" stared gloomily at the piece of plastic sticking out of his mouth, but before John managed to take it out and read the result, Sherlock's face twisted and his body cramped suddenly. He curled up with his hands on his stomach, barely managing to lean his head out of the bed to face the floor, and vomited. Bile and saliva. And a thermometer.

"Bugger..." muttered the doctor, picking up the device with its ending bit open.

"I need to go..." Sherlock groaned out, trying to get himself out of bed. John leaded him to the bathroom, taking off his dressing gown on the way there, preventing a great embarrassment and disaster.

He managed to clean the mess and look through the medicine in his kit, before the doorknob clung and the drawn physiognomy of his flatmate appeared in the crack between the door and the frame. Sherlock looked even worse than several minutes ago. He was only pale then, now he looked like a corpse brought from the mortuary and left to rot somewhere in the corner. His skin took a colour of rancid cottage cheese and he had blue and greenish blotches around his eyes and mouth. He was unsteady on those long legs of his, looking like a newborn giraffe. Watson caught him just before the fall.

"Lay down. I found some Metoclopramide. It should help, or you'll drag yourself inside out like a sock."

He took out a disposable syringe and prepared for an injection.

"No", Sherlock whined. "I don't want it."

"You're an idiot, you know?"

"I'm a highly funccctioning sssociopath."

"You're a sick and jabbering idiot. You're so dehydrated that you'll pass out soon. Sherlock!" John snapped his fingers in front of Holmes' face. "Look at me! You have a stomach flu and it needs symptom-relieving drugs! Your "transport" is conking out, got it?"

The detective's face clearly showed that he has his own opinion concerning the matter, and it contains the Plague, cholera and few more exotic diseases. Maybe even a strain of Ebola virus. Doctor Watson at last lost his patience and changed into Watson the Soldier, and there's no ceremony in the army. He turned Sherlock over on his stomach with one fast move, pulled down his trousers and stuck the needle on his friend's thin ass, at the same time saying:

"Don't tense up."

"AAA!"

"I told you not to tense up. Don't struggle, for God's sake, or I'll break the needle!"

"You butcher..." the detective murmured, flattening himself like a cat ran over by a lorry.

"Don't be childish. Have you never got any shots?"

"Not in there."

The piston of the syringe finally reached the end and John was able to get the needle out.

The phone rang , laying abandoned on the bed. Sherlock picked it up and John felt his heart crumble on the sight of his slow motions. What a mere disease can do with even the most energetic man...

"Holmes... Yes... No, Greg. I have the Plague."

John was struck dumb.

"The... stomach Plague", Sherlock continued in a melancholic baritone, not even moving his head from the sheet. "Oh..." Longer pause. "If he has pink feathers, arrest him."

John snatched the phone from his hand.

"Greg? John Watson here. Don't listen to him, he hasn't got the Plague, it's just a common stomach flu. I mean not a common one, he has fever and he is blathering, I'm trying to pull him together.

"Of course, thanks. I didn't know where the feathers came from", Lestrade answered through the phone.

"No matter whose body it is and what the murderer has done, you have to find the culprit by yourselves. The consulting detective is out of commission for at least a week. Bye."

"Bye. Take care" Lestrade said gloomily and hang up.

John Watson took a deep breath, pulled Sherlock's pants back up and called 112.

John knew that Sherlock, calling himself a sociopath, generally wasn't so far from the truth. Generally, he was also on the borderline of Asperger Syndrome. But he couldn't be squeezed into any specific frames. And maybe that's why he was so interesting. John has already seen Sherlock being euphoric, focused, meditating, a charming Sherlock, a boor Sherlock, irritated, furious, drugged, scared, feeling low, being stubborn and with a naked butt (twice). But for the first time he saw Sherlock sick and Sherlock panicked.

Because the look in those wide open greyish-blue eyes was nothing else but irrational panic. Sherlock Holmes will find himself in a strange place, weak and helpless, without all his belongings, which gave him a feeling of stability and safety. They will even take his clothes and give him some strange, hospital gown. In normal circumstances he wouldn't even blink. After all John has seen this brave man face ninjas, all kinds of thugs and even Moriarty. In the ocean of danger and crime, he was in his element. Like a fish, but one of the bigger ones, not a mere macarele or a herring. But in that moment his "transport", as he called it disdainfully, his own body, a vessel for the brilliant mind, failed him disgracefully, and the mind followed. Hopelessly broken down. So when three seemingly nice paramedics in green jackets appeared at the door, Sherlock tried to escape and fell off the bed, screaming:

"Commando unit! John, run!"

For a second Watson was back under the sun of Afghanistan, hearing the echo of the rifle bursts, but only for a second. He picked his friend from the floor and put him back on the bed. Sherlock tried to sluggishly roll to the edge, to be as far as possible from the strangers, who crowded together at the doorstep of the bedroom.

"They're Moriarty's agents. He found us, John, found us... Where's your gun?"

"They're from the hospital."

"Look and that bloke... Military hairstyle, tattoos on his hands. Mercenary", Sherlock whispered desperately. "And do you see his shirt? HE'S GAY!"

"I really want to apologize", Watson mumbled, feeling his ears burning. He was trying to stop the detective from attempting another escape and crawling under the bed. It actually proved very easy as Holmes was weak as a child.

"Observe that girl, John. Think! The Eastern shape of the nose, olive skin, but darker around the eyes. She has been wearing a niqab, tanned only where the sun touched her skin. She's an Iraqi terrorist! Look at her jacket, bulged in front, she has explosives under it... She will blow us up. They're Moriarty's agents...!"

"That bulge is my chest!" the female paramedic muttered in outrage. "And I have make uparound my eyes! Does the patient need psychiatric help?"

"No, no..." Watson tried to resolve the situation. "He's just feverish and dehydrated."

"Shoot them, John! They're killers. You're a soldier!" Sherlock groaned nervously in the meantime, grabbing his friend by the sweater."

"I'm a doctor."

"But you have bad days, don't you?"

"Yes, with the worse one right about now."

"I'm not going to the hospital. I hate hospitals. They do BAD things to people."

"You're going."

"No."

"Yes."

"No. They'll kill me in the ambulance and then they'll come back to kill you and Mrs. Hudson..."

"Sherlock! Stop it! Nobody is killing abybody. Let me go and let this nice lady examine you."

"M-m..." It seemed that the detective was already too tired to talk, but he was still clung with both hands to Watson's sweater, as if it was his last hope, although the rest of his body was completely numb. It was terrible, really.

"How's it gonna be, lads?" asked the paramedic impatiently. "We loading the guy or not? Can't stand here forever."

"If the patient is conscious and refuses to be treated, we obviously can't take him by force", added the sulky female. "Please decide on something."

John heaved a deep sigh. Everything was pointing out to the fact that either he gets on the ambulance with Holmes still clinging to him or he slips out of his favourite jumper with a secret commando trick and sends it to the hospital, labeled with a half-delirious famous detective.

"Sherlock, I'm begging you to stop this nonsense. You need medical help", he said imploringly, trying to detach himself from the human burr, but without any success.

"I have medical help. I have you!" Sherlock whined tearfully.

Watson understood that it's all pointless. If taken by force and tied to a stretcher, Sherlock will find a way to change the ward into hell as soon as he arrives. And if a psychiatrist comes along, Mycroft will soon have to get his little brother out of Bedlam. John would have to keep an eye on him anyway, so doing it at home was the lesser of two evils.

"I'm a doctor. Apparently and unfortunately, his doctor" he said resignedly. "He needs to be on a drip. And some Amiodaron for his heart. I gave him Metoclopramide, so at least he doesn't vomit every couple of minutes. I have protective drugs, but I think it won't be enough..." He made a helpless gesture towards the jumbled up first-aid kit.

The female paramedic with Eastern traits was smart. The problem could be resolved by force, but it would be unpleasant for everyone. Or they could compromise.

"If we put him on a drip and leave you a spare one, would you be able to take care of him yourself?"

"Of course", John assured her eagerly. "Leave me whatever you can. After all, it's just a rotavirus and not real cholera. And... Have you got a thermometer? He bit mine open."

The paramedic raised her eyebrows and made a step forward, but Holmes flinched like a fish stabbed with leister, glowering at her mistrustfully, so she just took three small packets containing disposable thermometers out of her bag and threw them on the bed.

"Take his temperature so we know what's going on."

"Sweet Jesus", John said after a while. "Almost forty. No wonder he's delirious. Do you all look so... ekhm... terrorist-like?"

A black youngster emerged from behind the paramedic with the military hairstyle.

"How about me? Or is he just racist?"

"He's not. He thinks all people are idiots equally and justly. Could you pass me some gloves and a PVC? As you can see, I'm a bit stuck."

The black paramedic made the patient react weakly enough for him to come right to the bed and pass the doctor all he wanted.

The one with a crew cut shrugged his arms and retreated to the other room saying he's there if he'd be needed. "The Iraqi terrorist" went to the bathroom to wet some towels. They had to get the patient's temperature down before he boils that invaluable brain of his.

"Calm down, Sherlock, calm down..." John repeated to the patient while applying a tourniquet around his arm and patting his forearm. "Now I'll prick you. It may hurt a little. You trust me, right?"

"Sure, John" Sherlock mumbled, at last opening his fingers. "You I trust."

Finally everything was ready. The IV was dripping, hanging provisionally on a nail, and Holmes, pierced with shots and covered in cold compresses, was staring at the ceiling and slowly cooling off.

"Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective", muttered the female paramedic standing at the door. "Who would have though..."

"Coincidence. Holmes is a very common name." Watson made an attempt to lie his way out.

"Of course, it must be some other Sherlock Holmes from Baker Street, who by chance also has a friend named John", said the woman ironically, picking up the equipment. "By the way, there's a jar containing human liver in the bathroom."

"It's an experiment", John mumbled, ashamed. "I know a story like this could be a tasty morsel for the tabloids, but for God's sake, he's only human. A genius, but still just a human being. And he has the right to privacy, to a private jar and to a private flu with complications!" he finished furiously.

"It's the Plague", said Sherlock in a dead voice.

"I told you a hundred times: it's not the Plague! It's the flu!"

"Crap."

"Not in front of a lady."

"The symptoms resemble Krabbe disease."

"You're not an infant. Even if you're crabbing like one. You furryworm."

The female paramedic laughed, watching John Watson, the sidekick of the famous detective, touching his cheek sulkily, checking if the fever is really going down. He's face was grim and stern, but he's touch seemed very delicate.

"How do you put up with that, mister Watson?"

"I've been to war. I'm used to it."

The duvet was lying on the floor. Sherlock was deathly pale but resting in the middle of the bed, on his back, in a position of the Vitruvian Man, with a blanket twisted like a twine around him, as if he was simultaneously a modern version of Laocoon sculpture. His rufled hair clung to his forehead. And he was snoring. Mighty and loudly, like a drunken Scottish woodcutter. For a second there John had an urge to record this unique occurrence with his snazzy phone, but then his medical ethics prevailed. He carefully felt the patient's hand. Sherlock's skin was cool and dry, as if he was a stiff resident of the mortuary. If it wasn't for the snoring, which was undoubtedly a sign of life, Doctor Watson would have started to look for postmortem lividity. Oh, well, at least he wasn't feverish anymore. Or maybe he was, he's forehead still seemed suspiciously warm. He could use a bath, fresh pyjamas and bedclothes, but firstly his PVC should be taken out. Or not, firstly the meds. And some breakfast. After all, this poor idiot hasn't eaten a thing for more than three days.

The patient didn't really appreciate Watson's efforts.

"Dear God, John, what muck is that?"

"Chamomile tea and instant rice porridge for children less than three years of age, so it's perfect for you, my dear Holmes."

"I'm not eating that."

"You are."

"I've eaten on Thursday."

"On Thursday you vomited even what you've eaten last Sunday, so Thursday doesn't count."

"You're ruining my schedule. Mother-hen in a Desert camouflage."

"I see you're feeling better. You're being loutish again." The doctor put the teacup on the table and the bowl with porridge on Sherlock's lap. "If you don't start eating right now, I'm getting my laptop and describing everything that happened here last night on my blog. Remember much?"

"Dimly."

"We had a visit from some Iraqi terrorists disguised as paramedics. At least in your version. A certain consulting detective is afraid of shots and enacted the most embarrassing panic attack of the season. And you squealed", added John with no mercy. "And your fans will certainly like the look of your naked butt. I have photos."

"You didn't."

"Try me." John put his jaw forward, making a face of "Captain John Hamish Watson, murderous commando internist". Of course he was aware of the fact that ladies consider him rather a sweet teddy bear, but it's common knowledge that bears are sweet only until they get angry.

Debilitated Holmes lost the battle of glares and reached for breakfast with a gloomy face, but his hands were shaking so much that he couldn't carry the spoon all the way to his lips. John took it from him without a word and started to feed him.

"John, this is really humiliating!"

"You know what's more humiliating? When you dislocate both your shoulders during a mission and your mate has to hold your willy in the loo."

Shocked Sherlock froze with his mouth open and John immediately took advantage of it, putting the spoon in.

"D'd you...?" he mumbled through the porridge.

"Not me", John denied quickly. "I had only one hand disabled. But as you can see, you haven't even experienced the first level of humiliation. How did you come to the conclusion that the paramedics were Moriarty's agents anyway?

Sherlock swallowed.

"The almost bald one had a violet shirt, I could see the collar. Violet shirts are worn by gays, and Moriarty is gay. They're sleeping together, I'm sure."

"But you have a purple shirt too. Open, open!"

"But only one."

"And that nice female paramedic, theoretically with explosives in her bosom?"

"Maybe I was a bit mistaken. But she was suspicious! Had a nose job. How could a mere emergency service worker afford a plastic surgery?"

"And the black one?"

"Gay."

"Another one? Open! Yum!"

"Wuz starin at me..."

"Sherlock, not all men that stare at you are gay."

"No?"

"Sherlock!"

Distracting him like this, John managed to force the whole portion of tidbit for three year olds into Sherlock, which was an unquestionable success. If he will ever become a dad, this experience would be priceless.

"Pills", he ordered. "Tea. Wash it down. Swallow. Bottoms up."

"Yes, sir", muttered Sherlock.

"Taking your temperature." John looked at the scale. "Thirty seven point three. Almost normal. I mean, normally abnormal. You need to go to the bathroom?"

"No, sir."

Sherlock's phone made a text noise. Judging from the sound, it was from Lestrade. Watson snatched the device before the detective could stretch his hand.

"I said: No cases. Doctor's orders. The suspect has feathers. Arrest?", the surprised doctor read out loud. "Has Greg gone completely mad too?"

"Answer yes", said Sherlock.

"What's with those feathers? They caught the Big Bird?"

"A pedophile. There is currently a fashion for ostrich plums among the girls, mostly for pink ones. The suspect has no children. If they found even one pink fibre in his house, he had a little lady in there..."

"And you deduced that from a few lines of description through the phone, with a fever of almost forty degrees? You're amazing!"

"I know", the consulting detective answered with his usual modesty, sliding down the pillows from half-sitting to almost laying down, with his eyelids almost shut.

"Sod off", John laughed. "I'll take your PVC out now; we have to let the vein rest. It won't hurt."

"Mhm..." Sherlock mumbled with his eyes closed. When the doctor was busy taking care of his hand, he slept like a log again.

Watson was feeling sleepy himself. He yawned. Actually he should clean the mess in the kitchen, rinse out the dishes and put them into the washer, call the clinic and take the next day off, because Sherlock needs to be taken care off... He yawned again. "To hell with that"", he thought. "I'll call later. And the dishes won't discover the wheel for another hour or two". He sat beside Holmes until midnight, changing cold compresses to get the fever to a reasonable level, watched the drips, took a nap on the couch, listening to every sound coming from his friend's bedroom. He wasn't sure if he slept even for three hours in total. He was tired no less than his flu-stricken patient.

When he sat on the couch, he got a text.

From: Sherlock

Message: THX

Only three letters. It took John a while to understand that it's just short for Thanks. He put the phone away and laid down, closing his eyes with relief.

"Furryworm", he whispered and smiled to himself.


End file.
